Can't Touch This (5 page)

The plane bounces along on the tarmac and my blood pressure accelerates.  I don’t know if I can do this.  It would be extremely embarrassing for me to ask them to turn the plane back.

Kyle reaches over and soothes my hand with his.  “Hey, Vanessa.  It’s okay.  You’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he says softly.  “Gaze out at the horizon and just breathe.”

His voice is soothing and kind and I find myself doing as he says.  Somehow, my fingers have laced through his larger ones, gripping to him like a lifeline.  I’m too terrified to be embarrassed, so I continue to cling.  He doesn’t make any effort to separate himself from me, only telling me to breathe and focus.  I peer out the window at Boston Harbor as it rushes by on my right and then suddenly, we lift off the ground and bank up over the ocean below.  Once we’re airborne, I stare out the window in horror as the flaps groan and moan like they haven’t been serviced in years.  Of course they slip back into place and all is well as we bank into a cloud.  Kyle is eyeballing me and I don’t know whether to be self-conscious or grateful for his concern.

“You’re doing just fine,” he says to encourage me.

The plane climbs higher with all sorts of bumps, grinds, and noises going on.  Kyle explains each one, letting me know we’re okay and this is all normal.  “When they announce that you can use your electronics, you’ll know it was a good takeoff and we’re set to relax.”

The words jar me momentarily.  Then before I know it, we level out, the seatbelt light is extinguished, and the flight attendants are taking drink orders.

I glance down and see my hand still pretzeled with his.  Reluctantly, I let go, unable to meet his gaze that I feel on my skin.

“See,” Kyle says softly and very close to me.  “You did it.”

I breathe for what feels like the first time since I sat in my seat.  “Thanks.  So far, so good.”

“Can I get you something?  Some water?” he asks.  “A barf bag?”

I laugh and loosen my death grip on the armrest to push my hair out of my face.  “I need more wine.”

“Definitely.”

He signals the flight attendant to bring me a Chardonnay.

“Make it two,” I say.

Kyle scoffs, ever the businessman.  “Oh, I don’t want one.”

“No, they’re both for me.”

He laughs and hands over his credit card to the flight attendant in exchange for the small bottles.  He opens one and pours it into the plastic airline cup for me.  “A little medication for you.”

“Thanks, you’re really nice, Kyle.”  What a relief to have a thoughtful person with me as I defy death in this flying cylinder that continues to bounce along in the choppy air pockets.

Kyle runs his hands through his hair.  “I used to have a little fear of flying when I first started traveling for work.”

And he even admits it...cool.  “What did you do to combat it?”

He laughs.  “I kept getting on airplanes.  Sooner or later, you get used to being up here.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”  I drink the cold wine down in nearly one gulp.  I can see Kyle watching and I hope he won’t report me to Jiles.  “Oh that Vanessa, what a lush.”

“So, let me distract you.  We can talk about the customer service plan,” Kyle says, trying to avert my bout of panic.  The wine tingles inside me and I think I’ll be all right.  Maybe even a little buzzed.

I smooth my hands down the sides of my pants, quelling the tension that’s built up from balling my fists.  Work.  I’ll focus on work and not think about how high up I am in the air.

As Kyle flips through the pages of his iPad, flicking his finger against the screen, I admire his finely designed body, from firm arms—apparent because of the fitted blue shirt—and broad shoulders that taper to his waist and a nice butt.  Okay, so I looked at his gorgeous ass earlier when he stashed his bag in the overhead bin.

His legs look solid, like tree trunks encased in denim.  He must work out religiously to have such a sculpted body.  I stare at the top of his head as he talks about a ten-city client tour.  I need to stop lusting after him.  This is not a good thing.  It won’t get me anywhere.  We’re co-workers.  There are rules.  Besides, guys like Kyle have tall, skinny blondes waiting somewhere for them with lips pursed for kissing and bodies tight for all-night sex.  And here I sit downing Chardonnay like a bar fly.

Besides, although he’s been my Dr. Freud so far, helping me combat my phobia, he’s still corporate through and through.  He reeks of his newfound position.  While I appreciate a hard worker and trying to succeed, I much prefer someone who bucks the system and doesn’t merely follow the leader.  Especially when that leader is Little Baby Jesus and his brigade of Willies.  I don’t have the guts to break the rules—not yet anyhow.

So, I sigh wistfully, tune out the corporate prattling, and open up my second Chardonnay, hoping this flight ends soon.

W
hen we touch
down in Philly, I’m completely buzzed, although I do my best to try and hide it.  So much for being the consummate professional.  I’m mortified with myself.

It’s a bit of a haul in our rental van that Ted drives over the Walt Whitman Bridge and down the Expressway to Atlantic City, where the CRM Strategic Conference is being held at the Taj Mahal.  When we check in the hotel, I find that my room looks like a bordello, with red curtains, a purple bedspread, and outlandish fluffy green chairs.  I look up, thinking there will be a disco ball hanging from the ceiling.  Thank heavens, there’s not one.

I meet the guys back downstairs at the vendor check-in area and get all the paperwork for our space.  I thumb through the registration packet that holds my badge, the itinerary, and drink tickets.  I announce, “There’s a reception tonight with an open bar and another party down the Boardwalk later.”  Lovely, just what I need, more alcohol.

“It’ll be a great jumping off place to experience the tradeshow world and network with our customers,” Kyle says to me.  “Now that you’re past the flying part.”

Maybe there’s some medication I can take so I’m not so anxious in the air.  I certainly can’t get blitzed like this every time since I won’t always have Kyle along to assuage my fears.  And while we’re at it, let’s get some medication for Kyle’s constant obsession with business-chatter.

When Ted asks for the booth key, I realize I’d left it on my desk in Cambridge, like an idiot!

“Don’t worry.  I know how to pick the lock.”  The gleam in his eye tells me he’s done that a time or two.  See, now Ted’s got the right idea.  Although he’s not in the least bit attractive to me or anyone I’d ever go for, he is more of a corporate raider than a follower with his expense fudging and lock picking.  For that, I’ll give him props.

Thanks to his instructions, we throw the portable booth up in a heartbeat.  (It’s small enough that we don’t have to use union help.)  The pieces slide together easily, no need for tools.  The whole “build the booth” concept makes a lot more sense to me now as I adhere the Velcro graphic panels in place.  Ted shows me how to set up the pop-up tradeshow booth, which is a lot easier than I imagined.  The panels are decorated with rich graphics and screenshots of our DigitalDirection software.  Very flashy and impressive.  We hook up the TV monitors we’ve rented and then Ted gives us a crash course on the software.  My brain is overloaded with the bells, whistles, and features.  Kyle concentrates on everything Ted says and takes copious notes.  I do my best to follow along so I’ll be able to show attendees what our product is all about.

Kyle must notice that I’m starting to fade because he offers to finishes the last computer station.  “There you go.  All set.  Anything else I can do?”

Okay, so he’s helpful.  With muscles like that, he should be.  I resist the urge to reach out and see if they’re actually as solid as they look.  “I think I need a nap before tonight’s reception.  All that wine’s getting the best of me.”

Ted wraps his arm around my shoulder.  Kyle seems taken aback by the show of affection.  Before today, I’d spoken to Ted maybe six times, now all of a sudden he’s my best bud?

“I hope you brought your drinking shoes, girly girl.  ‘Cause we got lots of partying to do.  Starting in three hours,” Ted says, looking at his Rolex.

This isn’t the reason I’m in town.  I have to represent the company.  It’s my job to embody DigitalDirection.  I’m an icon for the corporation.  Maybe partying is simply an aspect of the business I’ve yet to see being stuck in an office all these years.

I look at Kyle, who’s grinning from ear to ear.  That delectable dimple pops out and makes my stomach flip flop in a delicious pang.  He apparently understands the party circuit of tradeshows.

All right, I won’t worry what people back in Boston think and will simply hang with my co-workers.  As long as we do our job and come back with a ton of leads, that’s the main thing.

The festivities open up with a gigantic reception in a grand ballroom of the Taj Mahal.  Attendees are dressed appropriately in khakis and company golf shirts.  I opted for a knee-length black skirt with strappy sandals and a scoop neck black top.  I’m clearly overdressed.  Ted’s in his standard casual Friday outfit and I’ve yet to see Kyle.  I’m sure he’ll look good no matter what.

Buffet tables overflow with boiled shrimp, mini crab cakes, cheeses, fruit, eggrolls and chicken fingers.  Two open bars (sponsored by a social networking company) are at either end of the room and people line up double-fisting free drinks.

“Fill up on food and we’ll use our bar bills later tonight as meal receipts,” Ted informs me.

“Ah, I’m starting to understand how this works.”

At the serving platter of chicken fingers, I pile a couple of the greasy treats onto my plate.  Sure enough, I drop a dollop of honey mustard sauce on my left boob.

“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath.
  Way to go, Grace.

“Can I help with that?” a deep, husky voice asks.

I look up—and I mean
up
—to see a blond, blue-eyed man staring down at me. 

“I’ve got it, thanks.”  I dab my paper napkin into my Tanqueray and tonic and wipe at the spot.

“Yeah, but it’s not as fun that way,” he teases while staring at my cleaning action.

I can’t decide whether to be offended or flattered.

He must pick up on my trepidation on judging the situation, and then adds, “You know, what happens at the tradeshows, stays at the tradeshows.  One of the best perks to being in sales, don’t you think?”  He tacks a wink onto the end of the sentence for good measure.

I take inventory:  Caribbean blue eyes, long, lean chin, strong jaw, broad shoulders leading to a trim waist and legs that go on forever.  He must be over six-feet.  And older than me.  At least in his mid-thirties.  I wipe the corner of my mouth unconsciously as he gazes at me.

Be charming.  Be cool.  Above all, be professional.

“Boy, you don’t waste any time.”  No way this guy would pick me out of the crowd without a reason.  “The show doesn’t start for”—looking at my watch—“twelve hours and you’re already in sleazy salesman mode?”

He laughs, a bubbly, rolling type, because he knows I’ve bested him.  Extending his large hand, he says, “Rory Ellery.  I’m with SalesTracker.”

I stifle a snicker as I reach for his hand.  Ah-ha!  The competition.  Not what I expected.  They sure grow them nice and handsome at SalesTracker.

But here’s
my
chance to play the corporate games.

My brain sizzles with a brilliant idea.

I’ll play him for information and score big at work.

Reaching out, I give him my hand and shake firmly.  I’m bound and determined to win.  Look out SalesTracker, here comes Vanessa Virtue!

M
y fingers tingle
at the contact with Rory Ellery’s firm, warm grip.  “I’m Vanessa Virtue.  I work for DigitalDirection.”

As I wait for his reaction, I wonder if I can find out anything that might help us get the edge back from SalesTracker.

But he’s all charm and casualness.  “Nice to meet you, Vanessa.  So you came out from Boston?”  He piles a couple of eggrolls onto his plate and then steps out of the way so another man can reach the bounty.

“Yeah.  We’re your competition, you know.”  I’m slightly offended that he doesn’t acknowledge this.  I want him to know I’m here to play, but he doesn’t flinch.  Instead he smiles.

Deadly blue eyes lock on mine and I feel a slight tremor in my tummy.  “Well, Vanessa, I don’t consider DigitalDirection to be my competition.  It’s more like
you’re
in competition with us.”  He’s quite sure of himself.  “Who wants to talk work anyway when there’s a beautiful woman in front of me?”

Okay...I know I’m blushing.  Think fast.  Be clever.  The guy is just playing the corporate bullshit games.  “Oh, well,” I say, trying to sound mature.  “I’m in marketing, so I’m not into all that sales competition stuff.”

“Then I guess we can be friends,” he says, winking.  He jumbles his thick blond hair and then asks if I want to meet his colleague. 
Colleague
.  What a step up.  When I was a flunky at my last job, my only associate was the telephone.

Rory places his hand on my elbow (very Stage Four of intimacy) and guides me through the crowd super gentleman-like.  He introduces me to Gene Cappucci, a fellow salesman for SalesTracker, based out of Seattle, Washington.  Gene is Italian through and through, beefy with thick charcoal-colored hair and a bushy black mustache.

“Well, aren’t you a cutie,” Gene says to me.

I bite my tongue from telling him he’s not.  He’s old enough to be my dad.

“We’re headed over to EG Venture Capital’s swing party in a bit,” Rory says.  “You wanna come along?”

“I’m here with folks from my company.  Can they come, too?”  There.  Safe.  Bring along the guys.

“Who’s with you?  Ted Spencer?” Gene asks.  “I can’t tell you how many times I beat him out for a new customer.”

“Ted’s here with me,” I point to where he stands, holding two cocktails.  “And our new client services manager is here, too.”  I glance over to see Kyle in a heated conversation with a leggy blonde, but I don’t point him out.  My confidence sinks momentarily when I see the woman laugh at something Kyle says and then touch his shirtsleeve.  I find myself glaring.